In Search Of
by ss10009
Summary: Suze is convinced that the morning after her first time with Jesse is going to be a romantic, picturesque affair. But she awakes with an absent lover, a peculiar missed call, and a note. That’s when everything goes straight to—. To crackfic.
1. Cracks in the Ceiling

**In Search of…**

Suze is convinced that the morning after her first time with Jesse is going to be a romantic, picturesque affair. But she awakes with an absent lover, a peculiar missed call, and a note. That's when everything goes straight to—. To crackfic.

Disclaimer – The Mediator is property of Meg Cabot. I'm not Meg Cabot. And I'm not making any money off this. Sworn!

* * *

_Chapter One ~ Cracks in the Ceiling_

I've never really been the type of girl to relish dreams. My dreams are usually pointless and dumb. (The dreams I've had concerning dancing produce are testament to this.) And sometimes my dreams are nightmares. About Paul or Shadowland, typically.

But not right now.

Because occasionally I dream about something that's not ridiculous and doesn't scare me. Like when I luck out and have a dream about Jesse.

About how it feels to be near him. About how his body, now complete with body heat ever since he came back to life, feels lying next to mine. About the sensation I get when our lips touch. And sometimes my imagination ran a little wild and dreamt about how it would feel when he finally ditched his gentlemanly ways.

It felt good.

Very good.

This was the type of dream I was having now. Jesse's body was covering my own; our lips were connected and sampling each other. As were other body parts. And then this dull fire inside of me just kept building and building. I was a volcano, fit for explosion.

The disappointing part was coming next, I knew. Waking up at the end of these dreams always sucked. I'd be all hot and bothered and Jesse wouldn't have changed a bit. Which meant I had to take care of the problem myself.

That wasn't particularly convenient back when Jesse was a ghost, you know. I'd have all these dirty thoughts about him, he'd mistake that as me calling him…

God, those moments had been really awkward.

I mean, I hadn't exactly been able to approach my mother about… tools for masturbation. You know, a vibrator. So I'd had to take matters into my own hands. (And I'm going to be honest here, that pun was partially intended.)

No wonder Jesse looked so weirded out when he saw me and my electric toothbrush.

I rolled over on the mattress, not wanting to succumb to that memory.

I opened my eyes, feeling rays of morning sun hit my face. The first thing I saw, other than overly bright sunshine, was the ceiling of my bedroom. There were a series of cracks in the ceiling, curved just properly to form a pair of circles. And between those two circles was a line, long and smooth, that rounded itself to form a sort of cylinder.

Which was when I realized it.

My bedroom had a penis in the ceiling and I'd never noticed before!

This was going to make great alone time material. I would now have an image to go by when I imagined Jesse's manhood. Not that I didn't know what a penis looks like. I mean, I'm born in a generation of Wikipedia and Cinnemax. (Though, admittedly, the Wikipedia penis didn't look particularly appealing. They went for it from the medical perspective. Which is why Cinnemax came in handy.) See, I'd never seen a penis in real life before.

OK, OK. That was a lie.

I'd seen… Spike's before.

Though his was kind of dilapidated, I think. We should really get him neutered just to put that poor thing out of misery. His mini Spike, I mean. It looks like you should draw a little frown-y face on it or something. I don't think it's seen a lot of action with the female cats recently. But maybe it has. Maybe that's where Spike goes when he's not here hanging out with Jesse. To go pimp out cats.

Yeah… maybe.

But back to business, I'd never seen a human penis before in real life.

OK, OK. That was another lie.

I had three stepbrothers. Yeah, I'd seen real life penises before. But they don't go walking around in the buff much. And it's not like I'm trying to study what I'm seeing. I don't want to transplant little Dopey on Jesse's body or anything. It's sacrilegious, at best.

But still, a guy has never presented his penis to me in a sexual way before.

And I'm sticking to that one.

Really I am.

…Mostly, I am.

But that old, horny ghost that died a virgin does not count to me. I didn't even really see his that well anyway. It was kind of wrinkled up and nasty. I'd imagine that would be what Father Dom's looked like.

Not that I'd imagined it!

On purpose.

The dream I had about that goes under the nightmare section. I mean, he was decked out in leather and had piercings and a whip. And he'd been all, "Someday, Susannah, you will learn obedience." But I'd woken up before the whip could connect to my bare butt. And before I could find out what those clamps were for. Though I did have my suspicions.

But other than that I really haven't seen any eager—.

Of course, there was Paul's…

At that one shifter lesson.

That had been a really bad day for me.

And for Paul Jr.

I'd been feeling complacent that day. Or maybe just tired. But regardless, I'd been missing my Suze spunk. He'd seen that as "OK, I've worn the girl down," which is true in some ways. I had been kind of sick of Paul and his Paul-ish antics. But I guess his next thoughts must've been something along the lines of "time to claim the prize."

That had not turned out very well for either of us.

It was obvious how it had impacted Paul. He'd been walking around school with an unexplainable limp for two days. Trust me, when that guys pants go down, so do his fighting abilities. Mini Paul was quite vulnerable to my Stiletto-Meet-Privates attack. I almost felt sorry for him when he hit the floor. (Paul plus Mini Paul, I mean. Mini Paul didn't go alone. Even though that is a satisfying image. In a sadistic way.) The pain had apparently been on the verge of totally unbearable.

I didn't feel sorry about it until later. When karma snuck up on me. (Which is really maddening on my part because I was just defending myself by kicking him in the gonads. He shouldn't have gone all lusty on me. Karma still took me from behind though. Like I was a bitch in heat or something. Which I'm not. Because, if I was, Max would never ever leave me alone. Though it should be noted that Max is neutered. Not that I've checked or anything. It's just a coincidence that I know, sworn!)

I was having a really nice Jesse dream, like the one I was having a few minutes ago. You know, the kind that goes all the way. But then I noticed Jesse's thing-y. Which is something I usually don't do. I mean, usually I have to use a stereotypical, Wikipedia penis for the guy. It's kind of blurry and not as special as the real thing, I'm sure.

But this time, it was Paul Jr. I was looking at. Well, what Paul Jr. had been, at least. Before the Prada heel attack. I was pretty sure that it wasn't looking as pretty now. Paul Jr., I mean. (Though my Prada shoes seemed to have lost a little bit of their shine to me, as well. They were now, in my mind, the penis pumps.)

Not to say Paul Jr. didn't look…okay. From a neutral perspective, I'm sure he was all the penis rage. I was pretty sure Kelly Prescott thought so. But this was Paul Jr., and I was fairly sure that, as a part of Paul, he was just as evil as the rest of Paul. Possibly more so, considering all of the decisions Paul probably made with this little guy in mind.

And that was when my dream turned into a nightmare. A nightmare that Jesse had woken me up from. He'd been living in the rectory at that point in time, but apparently he'd sensed that I needed him. Which I did. Even if the need was kind of irrational.

Seeing my worst enemies sexual organs as a replacement for my boyfriend's had made me kind of hysterical right then. I needed to know that Jesse did not have Paul's penis. So I'd gone, "Jesse! Quick, pull down your pants!"

That had kind of confused him. And I didn't even give him time to get over my shocking request. I'd pulled him down (his whole body, not just his pants) in this very serious, soap opera manner, and said, "I need to know that Paul is not in your pants!"

I spewed some other similar stuff on this subject matter. This very important subject matter. When I'd finally calmed down, Jesse, I'd found out, had taken this all in a stride. A very confused, very shocked stride. But a stride nonetheless. I doubt I could've done the same in the situation. If Jesse had started hysterically screaming that I needed to take my pants off then I'd—.

I'd totally comply. I'd quite eagerly comply. Nothing in any plane of existence could stop me from complying.

Anyways, in the end, I managed to lie the whole thing off. I hadn't mentioned how Paul had shown me his goods. Jesse would try to kill Paul and then Paul would exorcise him. (In my mind, I told myself that Jesse wasn't trying to kill Paul because he totally hated Paul and didn't want him to force me or anything. But it was because Jesse was really sad that his penis wasn't the first one I'd seen live and up close. Of course, if I followed this logic, Jesse would also have to kill Sleepy, Dopey, Doc, re-kill that one horny ghost, and Spike. And I knew Jesse would never kill Spike. So that fantasy of mine died. I'm not sure if I mean Jesse being jealous of me seeing other penises before his or if I mean Spike being out of my life forever. At this point in time, it could go either way.)

Jesse had bought my lie that I'd had a completely random dream. I started pulling stuff out of nowhere, as per usual, and babbling. In the end, my cover story turned out to be that Paul was putting exploding rutabagas and apricots down Jesse's pants. But he had to be inside of Jesse's pants to detonate them. I'd told Jesse (in floral, over dramatic words) that, since my birth, I had been destined to keep Paul out of Jesse's pants. I wouldn't allow myself to fail my mission, and, when Jesse had interrupted my dream, I wasn't all the way back in reality yet.

Jesse mentioned something about the creativity of my subconscious, but the alarmed look from his face was long gone and replaced with bits of humor. And after that, he gave me a kiss goodnight and dematerialized for the rectory again.

As the memory in my mind drew to a close, I was left, again, staring at the penis crack in my ceiling. And thinking of Jesse.

I turned on my side, prepared to retrieve my electric toothbrush from my nightstand. (My mom was really curious as to why I kept that there, but I convinced her that some of the best brushing takes place bedside.) It was time to relieve the growing heat in my girly parts.

But when I reached over for my nightstand, I grasped at nothing.

My eyes darted around the room. And the more I looked, with the sunlight bursting through the glass of the window opposite me, the more I realized this wasn't my bedroom.

I recognized the area immediately. This, along with my bedroom, Father Dom's office, and a few other places were definite regulars in my mind. I felt like I was at home, because, in a way, I was.

Jesse's studio apartment was a place I certainly frequented.

Not that, you know, we did much of anything in here. There was kissing and movie watching and—.

I paused, memories of the first dream I'd had this moment rushing into my mind like waters through broken flood gates. Had that been a dream… Or a recollection?

My electric toothbrush wasn't the only item on the list of things I was missing.

Yeah. You'd have to put my hymen on that list, too.

* * *

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* * *

I had sex with Jesse.

I had sex with Jesse.

I had sex with Jesse.

Before now, I hadn't known that those five words, when connected in that order, could bring me so much joy. I'd been breaking Jesse down for about a year and a half now. But last night, apparently, he had been incapable of resistance. And now I was finally reaping the rewards.

Well, kind of.

I had a feeling that, before you could reap, you had to remember. Other than my dream, I had no memories of the sexual encounter. But I was pretty sure that a sexual encounter had occurred. Clue number one was my lack of clothes.

I was fairly certain that I'd see clue number two once I looked in the mirror. Aren't people supposed to glow after sex or something? Not as highlighted as a ghost glowing or anything, but isn't it supposed to be just a bit noticeable? Coincidentally, what happens when ghosts have sex? Do they go into super glow mode? Can ghosts even have sex?

Damn. If I'd spent a bit more time being up front (or "forward" as Jesse calls it) then maybe I could have found out. I knew ghosts could kiss, but what about the stuff down under? (And saying down under makes me think Australian. Was Jesse Jr. Australian last night? I'm starting to picture Steve Irwin talking to me out of Jesse's penis. Very disturbing.) Was it still functional? Great. Now Jesse has to die again for me to find out.

I sat up in Jesse's bed, realizing that I was alone. Which was something I'd only noticed subconsciously before. But now that I was no longer lying down and thinking about the sexuality of ceilings, it stuck out a lot more.

Where was Jesse?

His absence was probably a good thing. I mean, yeah, he was ruining my visions of the Morning After. (What kind of girl wants to wake up and not see the guy that she's just given her virginity to?) But if he were here, I'd probably blurt something out like an idiot. Something like "Jesse, did we really have sex because I can't remember it!" That would probably insult him. I'm pretty sure he was a virgin last night (though I'm not judging by his technique, 'cause I can't remember his technique) because of his moral fiber and what not. I'm pretty sure he died one (a virgin, I mean), and I don't think he's hooked up with any ghosts in the hundred and fifty years since then.

Besides, if I didn't come out and say I didn't remember last night, I'm pretty sure I'd ask the other question that was on my mind. You know, "Jesse, you've been around for about a hundred and seventy years, did you masturbate at all?"

'Cause that question would answer me on the whole "Can ghosts have sex?" area.

The cold air of the Carmel morning was slowly seeping into the room from Jesse's slightly opened window. It was about 8:30, according to the clock on Jesse's nightstand.

Is my family worrying about where I am?

I mean, I just hit eighteen a couple of weeks ago. Shouldn't they be worried about me or something? After all, I'm hanging out at suspicious hours with my twenty-one year old boyfriend. I had called to say that I was going to miss dinner… They probably weren't too worried about me or anything.

I kind of suspect that my mother is happier about Jesse being my boyfriend than I am. Jesse's the kind of guy that wins people over without any practice or deception. Andy begs him to come over for Sunday dinner and he gets this sad little look in his eyes whenever Jesse has something else to do. ("Something else to do" means Jesse is studying or is working. Jesse is very resilient to any attempts of mine to get him a social life. Not that _I_ have that much of a social life myself. And not that I really mind Jesse's not having a social life. If he had a social life, he'd be around girls, probably of the hot variety, and he'd forget all about me and hook up in hot, red-blooded, one-night-only affairs. Seriously, some girls are hoochie enough to make Jesse forget every moral he has.)

When I hit eighteen, my mom stopped bugging us about our age difference. The whole you're-not-even-legal-yet argument was null and void. Because for a while my mom was convinced that, every time I got in a car with him, we'd be headed across state lines to have sex. Our sexual relations weren't exactly legal in California then, you see. If this entire encounter had taken place a couple of weeks ago, Jesse could be sitting in jail for statutory.

Now that I'm legal, my mom is wild about Jesse. Wild enough about him to cause us to be on a Jerry Spring episode. You know, one of those "My mom tried to seduce my boyfriend" storylines. Except I don't think me and mom will wind up in a topless fight. 'Cause that'd be seriously awkward.

I think Doc is trying to initiate a love affair with Jesse. Jesse likes to talk about smart people stuff… Doc likes to talk about smart people stuff… Jesse doesn't even seem to mind talking to Doc, not that talking to him is a chore or anything, but Jesse really gets engrossed in the conversation. There are times when I think the whole love affair thing is a two-way street. Then I remember that Doc is like, fifteen, and I stop worrying about it. Jesse is not a pedophile. Even though I was pretty much Doc's age when me and Jesse met…

No, Suze. Do not go there. Your boyfriend, your perfectly straight, twenty-one year old boyfriend, is not engaging in any sort of sexual activity with your fifteen year old step brother. Deep breath, Suze. Deep breath…

Sleepy is the only member of my family that's a tad critical of Jesse. He thinks Jesse is in a gang with me, and is slowly luring me away into a life of street drugs and violence. Well, that's what he thinks some times. Other times, he thinks Jesse is my pimp. But that's only happened a couple times, usually when I wear fishnets.

I swung my feet over the side of Jesse's bed and let a foot come in contact with the soft, carpeted floor. My other foot soon followed the first.

Our clothes were scattered around the room haphazardly. Apparently, there had been a lot of hurried passion the other night. My shirt was lying on the back of a chair, my skirt on the wall opposing Jesse's bed, my pumps half hidden beneath the bed… When I looked up, I noticed that my bra was looped around a blade of the ceiling fan. I couldn't find my panties anywhere…until I looked towards the window. Half of my underwear was inside Jesse's bedroom, and the other half was basking in the cool morning sun outside.

I collected my clothing, beginning with the panties. As I pulled them from the window, my not-so clothed body touching the cold glass, I heard a sound of glee. I flinched.

I was fairly sure I was being perved on. (Not that I was trying to say that my body was excessively worthy of perving, though, thanks to my kickboxing tapes, it kind of was…) Knowing my luck (which is bad, you can tell because the guy I just gave my virginity to isn't here on my first ever Morning After) it'll turn out to be Paul. It'd be so like him, showing up when I least expect him, when I least want him…

He'll be all, "Shake it, Suze!" And then I'll be all, "I don't think so!" And then he'll be all, "Where's Jesse, Suze? Where? That's right, nowhere. He doesn't care about your hotness as much as I do. Now get low!"

And maybe I will. Get low, I mean. But it'll only be because Paul has confused me into doing so. As per usual.

But it wasn't Paul who was appreciating my nudity. (Astonishing, yes, I know.) It was Jesse's porn star/stripper neighbor (from the building across from his). I've forgotten which. (Whether she's a porn star or a stripper, I mean. Jesse doesn't have multiple porn star/stripper neighbors. That I know of.) She's a girl, name is Ivana Delicious (well, in the sex industry, at least). I kind of panicked when I found out Jesse was living freakishly close to a hooker (or whatever she is). She might see Jesse's abs (the abs that deserve the descriptive of "Delicious" more so than anything else in the world) and decide (after sleeping with him) that he should go into the business with her. And I was not going to let Jesse become an adult entertainer! He had dreams, big dreams, big doctor dreams. And no, naming him Dr. Dong would not suffice in the doctor-dream category.

My panic was premature, though. After spending an afternoon with Ivana, I found out that she was much more eager to have me on camera with her than Jesse.

And, yes. That afternoon was quite…awkward.

"So you and de Silva finally did it, huh?" Ivana asked, calling across the hedge that separated us. The hedge comforted me some, because I knew that Ivana couldn't see my privates. Though, you know, she was probably imagining them. (I was beginning to consider it a good thing that Paul had gotten me accustomed to having people imagine me naked. I mean, you can tell that when he's staring at me for minutes on end that he's not admiring my shirt but what's underneath it.)

"Um… yeah," I replied awkwardly. It was kind of weird, discussing my new lack of virginity with a porn star. I always imagined that the person I'd tell about my loss of virginity would be Gina. Though, you know, I didn't spend much time imagining that part. The telling Gina part, I mean. I mostly focused on what the night I lost my virginity would be like.

Just as a side note, I imagined myself actually remembering that night.

"But he skipped out on you?" she asked. "I saw him leave a while ago."

She was focusing on my eyes, not my chest. That was a good sign. The bad part of this conversation was that she was completely right about Jesse not being here. I didn't even know how long he'd been gone.

I crossed my arms over my breasts (just in case) and replied, "I guess."

I was about to ask her if she knew where he went, but she spoke first. "You know, Suze, I would never leave a gorgeous girl like you all alone…"

She trailed off suggestively. "Thanks for the offer, but… Um… No thanks?" I said in response.

Ivana smirked. She began to remind me of a female Paul. "You say that now," she said, "but you'll figure out eventually that I'm much better for you than any man."

That kind of freaked me out, so I gave her a quick goodbye and closed the window. Her amused expression haunted me until I pulled the curtains closed over it. The windows, I mean.

I stared at the pair of panties in my hand, unsure as to whether or not I should put them on. I didn't want to walk around commando, but I didn't want to walk around with dew touching my girly parts. Walking around in moist panties just didn't seem sanitary.

I ignored my underwear for the moment and began to make attempts to retrieve my bra from the blades of the ceiling fan. They seemed to be lodged in there pretty well, which didn't give my jump-and-grab technique much success. After awhile, I turned on the fan and watched, half-mesmerized as the bra spun around in a whizzing circle. It finally dislodged itself from the fan and wound up in my face.

I dressed myself, sans panties, and sat on Jesse's desk chair, which was quite close to Jesse's phone. Seeing as Jesse had been a no show for a while, I would probably need to get home. It was Sunday and Sunday breakfast was coming up pretty soon. Andy and my mom would probably flip out if I wasn't there. I mean, it was one thing to, as a senior in high school, stay out all night without calling, and then come in the next morning without your virginity. That was bad. That was probably something that would result in grounding and a very long conversation. But it was something else entirely to miss Sunday breakfast. That was terrible. That got you kicked out of the house. (You should've seen what happened one time last year when Doc missed breakfast after staying over too late at a friend's house. Saddest sight ever, I swear. A fourteen year old standing on the corner with all his bags… Thankfully, Andy calmed down before the taxi got there.)

I was going to have to call to say that I'd be late, which I dreaded. The calling part, I mean. Although showing up late meant that I would be likely to get fewer pancakes considering the feeding frenzy that always occurred at family meals. (Which, within itself, was a good thing. It meant that I was on an enforced diet.)

As I picked up the phone, I noticed that a red, missed call light was blinking at me. Even though it's none of my business as to what calls Jesse has missed… I pressed an arrow key, allowing me to scroll through the incoming calls.

Whose name should I see other than Paul's? And that's our Paul. Not some random, off-the-street Paul. And not Paul McCartney either. That might've been acceptable. No, I was talking about Paul Slater.

Why would Paul Slater be calling Jesse? And at one in the morning, nonetheless? As arch enemies, what could those two be talking about? Did Jesse call Paul to brag to him about bagging me? Because that's very un-Jesse-ish. That sounds like something Paul would do.

…Did I sleep with Paul last night or something? Because it's Jesse's apartment and all, but I can't remember anything. Maybe Paul slipped some kind of date rape drug in my drink and took me off to his house to have his wicked way with me and then broke into Jesse's apartment and brought me back here.

But that seemed a little far fetched. I mean, I hadn't even been drinking last night.

So why did Paul call Jesse? Did he want phone sex or something?

Paul: I'm slowly placing kisses all over your body. How does that feel?

Jesse: So good, Paul-_ida_. Never stop…

…

More ellipses…

I stopped wondering about the call from Paul and focused on the more important task of contacting my own mother. The phone rang several times before I was directed to the answering machine. I left a brief message consisting of "Mom, this is Suze, I'm going to be late for breakfast. See you later."

That was it. I didn't mention my lack of virginity. I didn't mention that I was calling from Jesse's place (though she'd know from caller ID). I didn't tell her that, when she asked me questions about what happened, I wouldn't be able to answer them because I didn't remember any of what happened. These things, I figured, might be best left for the tête-à-tête I was betting would occur later.

I placed the receiver back on the hook and sighed. I was going to face a long day, I could tell. I was about to get up from my seat at Jesse's desk and leave, but then I saw it. A note.

_Dear Susannah,_

_ I'm sorry I'm not here with you this morning. There was something I had to do. Something I've been meaning to do for a while. Please forgive me for my absence._

_Love,_

_Jesse_

Gee, Jesse, cryptic much? I reviewed the short letter again and again. "Something I had to do?" And then it clicked.

Something he had to do. Something he'd been meaning to do for a while.

And he was saying this right after he slept with me.

The wheels in my head turned slowly, trying to process that and see if the conclusion that was beginning to form in my head might be right.

Could Jesse be about to propose to me?

It made sense. He was feeling guilty about sleeping with me. He always felt guilty after we did anything even a little physical. And sex was really, really physical. But Jesse hadn't been able to resist my sex appeal, I suppose.

Father D. really was right about me having the stuff, I guess. (Though it did disturb me that Father D. knew that I had sex appeal. I mean, what if he was confessing to the Monsignor that he fantasized about a student or something? What if he had willfully had that bondage dream, too? I mean, when I'd had that dream about him, it had been a complete, unwanted accident.)

But the only reason Jesse feels guilty is because premarital sex goes against his olden day attitude. As far as I know, however, there was nothing wrong with married couples getting freaky. (With their respective partner, I mean. 'Cause that whole affair thing really did not work out for Hester Prynne.)

I guess I always expected us to end up married. After college or careers or whatever, I figured it would happen. It was the way life worked. It did seem kind of pointless to me, though. Marriage would only justify us in the eyes of our peers. Jesse and I had forever love without rings and paperwork. But still…

Jesse was going to ask me to marry him!

My nerves were going haywire. My mind was working at a thousand miles a minute. Married! To Jesse! To the man of my dreams! Married! To Jesse! In a gorgeous wedding dress!

Jesse was probably out there right now, picking out my ring. Or maybe he was asking for Andy's permission to marry me. That seemed like a Jesse thing to do, asking the father (or in my case, step father) of a girl if he can marry her. That might've been why no one answered the phone.

I examined the note again, imagining Jesse's proposal. It would hopefully lead to more sex. Sex that I would make a point of remembering.

After a few more moments of sitting around in Jesse's apartment, dreaming, I figured it was probably time for me to hit the road. Not that I had a car to do so in. Jesse had picked me up last night. I suppose I should call for a ride home.

But the more I thought about it, the less the idea appealed to me. The idea of going home, I mean. I had already been dreading it because of the conversation I knew my mom was going to start with me and the mocking Dopey would give me. He was going to knock (or mock) me right out of my happy mood, I knew it. Think about it, I was going to be returning home the morning after a night out with a boyfriend donning a huge smile on my face. I wouldn't even be smiling for the reason that everyone thought I was smiling for. You know, because my boyfriend and I had a raunchy sexual encounter. Which is true (I think), but it won't be the reason I'm smiling.

And I didn't want to have to explain to my mother about the fact that I couldn't remember my first time. She wouldn't understand. I mean, I didn't understand. And besides, what if I'm just jumping the gun about this whole "Jesse's going to propose to me" thing. That'd be really embarrassing to have to explain away.

What I needed to do before returning home was to clear my mind. Clear my mind of the possible proposal. Clear my mind of the sex. (The last one, I had apparently already done.) What I needed was a walk. Those things always seem to clear people's minds.

Right now, a walk didn't seem particularly practical. I mean, there I was, sans virginity and panties. I needed a change of clothes and a shower (not that I was dirty or smelly, I just wasn't fresh) before I started walking around.

But the walk was calling to me, begging me. I rummaged around inside of the oversized bag I'd brought with me to Jesse's the other night and found a pair of flats. (I always kept a pair of flats handy ever since the running-away-from-evil-yet-skilled-kisser Paul incident.) I hadn't brought an alternative pair of panties with me, though…

And then I figured that I could get a pair of Jesse's underwear. I didn't know if it was really sanitary to wear other people's underwear, but I figured me and Jesse had already been unconnected in a lot of "unsanitary" ways already. And once I put on Jesse's boxer-briefs, I knew I'd done the right thing. I felt closer to him, more connected…

God, I'm such a freak.

But at least I was a freak with a rectified situation. I could take my morning, clear-the-mind walk now, no problem.

So I entered Jesse's bathroom and performed an abridged beauty routine. I had definitely had sex, I decided. I did have a sort of glow about myself. After brushing my teeth with some of Jesse's toothpaste and a travel toothbrush I kept in my purse, I set off. My oversized purse hung over my shoulder, complete with random items (one of which was a pair of dew-soaked panties), to a destination that I was, as of now, unsure of.

I'd walk until I got tired of walking. Until my head was clear. Then I'd find a phone and get a ride home. And after that, I would reply affirmatively to a proposal from my boyfriend. Yes. That was the plan.

* * *

**(Author's Notes)**

That was, in no way, how I expected this to go. I expected to be able to accomplish everything I wanted in a one-shot, but now I just can't. Tell me if it's worth it to go on or if I just need to put this fic down and get my head examined.

Oh, and by the way, I was dying to say that in this sentence "I stopped wondering about the call from Paul and…" that call and Paul rhymed. But I didn't. And because of that, I'm proud of myself.

By the way…part two, I'm not sure why I'm calling this story "In Search Of…" But I'll figure it out eventually and pretend that I had a reason for the title all along.


	2. Trapped in the Closet

**In Search of…**

He's been gathering it, raindrop by raindrop… The dam of Jesse's courage is about to break. But what is he gathering the courage to do?

Author's Notes – I want everyone to remember that this is crack fic. I'm aiming for mature and well-written crack fic, but, bottom line, it's crack fic. And you will definitely see that in this chapter. This chapter is also from Jesse's vantage, though I will be reverting back to Suze's point-of-view for the next chapter.

Additionally, I'm sorry for how long this took, but I just recovered this document from a computer that's been broken since… A while. I honestly can't remember how long anymore. But over a year, definitely.

Disclaimer – The Mediator is property of Meg Cabot. I'm not Meg Cabot. And I'm not making any money off this. Sworn!

* * *

_Chapter Two ~ Trapped in the Closet_

The café around the corner from my apartment was, in my eyes, perfection. It was quiet, calm, and not riddled by tourists or adolescence. I stuck out a bit there, I knew. To the rest of the world I appeared to be a man in his early twenties, his prime of life. But I was an old soul, quite literally.

I sipped lightly on my third coffee of the morning. (I'd been there since seven thirty, after a couple of hours of wandering the beach, which came after getting dressed to the dim glow of my neighbor's stripper pole, which had happened after my conversation with Paul.) But the coffee did little, if anything at all, to alleviate the jittery sensation that I felt. It didn't add to it (I'd purchased a decaffeinated coffee to make sure of that), but it certainly didn't take away.

How do I say this…?

How do I do this…?

Now is not the right time, I'm certain. My mistakes are so fresh. Maybe, with time, it will be easier to correct them.

But it was a stupid idea.

Time could heal some things. Hangovers, for example. (Not that I know from experience, but it was on the examination I took for my driver's license.) And it was rumored that time could mend a broken heart. But could time ease the pain of false promises as well?

Because I knew Susannah loved me. Her olive green eyes could never hide the emotions she kept for me. Why had I humored her with the idea that our relationship could ever happen? She was going to hate me, loathe me, despise me for what I'd kept from her. And I would deserve it.

It was easy to push her away when I'd been…less than alive. Love between us could never work because we resided within two different planes of existence. Ultimately, long distance relationships do not work out. I'd seen it in my own time, when my sister Marta pined for a love that had journeyed far away. In the end, their love could not withstand the long distance that was put between them.

Susannah herself should've known this. One of the movies that she owned displayed the result of a long distance relationship. The girl, Areola or something, resided within the sea, away from her true love, the prince. Until the distance between the pair was shortened and Areola joined the prince, their love could never truly blossom.

I would not allow Susannah to join me. She deserved a long, happy life as a living, breathing being.

But when I was resurrected, the issues changed. There wasn't much of a reason why I couldn't be with her. Except for The Reason. The Reason I feared… The Reason that I had unhappily discovered last night…

Her body did not satisfy me.

I was not attracted to her. Not sexually attracted to her, at least.

Last night, I had clung to my last hopes. The last hopes that, perhaps, I wasn't… queer. Susannah was feminine perfection, I knew. She was considered pretty, smart, funny… If I didn't find her attractive, I'd never find any woman attractive.

And that became the problem.

I didn't find any women attractive.

After last night, I became sure. Sure of something I'd feared for so long. I, Hector "Jesse" de Silva, was... homosexual.

But that simply isn't acceptable. Not in my time, definitely. And I know that people today still struggle with retaining their rights of civility. As a man, I'm supposed to want someone with curvaceous hips, buxom breasts, and soft, gentle lips. But I'm more…attracted to walls of muscle and strength. People like myself.

In other words, men.

In other words, him.

But I am not to act upon either. (Most certainly the second.) It is more than improbable; it is outright impossible.

Yet my feelings do not change.

If only I could will myself to look at her, Susannah, and see her for what she really is. A beautiful girl. And I do see her for that, in the utmost honesty, I do. But I never see erotic.

Which is good, in a sense. It would dishonor her to see such things. But it would certainly act as assurance for myself if I did.

And I do not.

Whenever I think of inappropriate, impassioned acts, it is never her face that comes to mind.

It's always…

It's always him.

Indubitably, I have been cursed. Life, I know, is not fair. In the nineteenth century this fact was plainly present. The impoverishment of the common people, the incurable diseases, the betrothals, the uncomfortable tightness of pants… And certainly, when I died and spent over a hundred years in limbo, things were not fair.

But I would much rather be a peasant dying of tuberculosis whilst engaged to an aesthetically displeasing, foul tempered, ill witted harpy who forces me to wear pants ten sizes too small for me than bear the curse that I do.

The curse of being unable to fall in love with Susannah. My inability to see her in eyes tinted with lust. The curse of loving him so much. Wanting him so much…

Paul Slater.

My worst enemy. The man that I should hate for exorcising me. The man that constantly lures Susannah, the Susannah that I should be desperately in love with, into dangerously hormonal situations. In summary, he is not a man whom I should invest any positive emotions for.

And love is definitely a positive emotion.

I tightened my grip on the coffee cup in my hand. When had my life become so complicated? So inescapably difficult? Perhaps when I gained a murderer, Felix Diego. Or maybe when I was found by a savior, Susannah Simon. But more realistically, when I first looked into the icy blue eyes of Paul Slater.

Never a dull moment since.

The hard, tanned body, sculpted to perfection from years of tennis… The smirk that spoke of the many evil things he could do to a body… His gait, so confident and powerful…

My mind strayed to nights spent, lying awake in bed in my apartment. I dreamed of him while I was awake (it was particularly easy to do so considering that there was, what appeared to be, a quite accurate depiction of the nether regions of the male anatomy on my ceiling). When I was alone, it made great material for—.

Not a good road to head down, I said to myself. Considering that you are not alone, it is very much time to, as Susannah might say, get a grip on yourself.

Of course, I'd prefer to get a grip on Paul Slater…

I took a deep sip of coffee, trying to discover whether or not I could asphyxiate myself if I drank enough of it too quickly. The answer, I found out a few seconds later, was no. It would have been nice to die again, without the whole ghost portion of the matter, and be able to avoid the coming situation all together.

I was in the café for an important reason, after all. Today was the day that I… relinquished Susannah into the arms of Paul Slater. Or at least, I allowed him to pursue her. I could never bring her happiness, not with my sexuality in such a quandary. And I knew that Slater was interested in Susannah, and definitely in a sexual manner. I'd seen the looks he'd given her on several occasions, and there was nothing innocent contained in them.

There was just raw sex.

Or at least, that's what I saw. That's what I wanted to see. Him, stripped of emotional constraints, stalking towards me with animalistic intention.

I would also settle for simply "him stripped."

But, to return to the point of the matter, I had to figure out how to talk to Slater. I definitely didn't want him to know about my final decision concerning my sexual preference. I could see him humiliating me with the newly gained knowledge, holding it over my head and torturing me with it. Imagine if he knew how I felt about him…

I shook my head, and, as I returned to my coffee, I discovered it was empty. It's time to stop avoiding this, de Silva, and get down to business.

I don't feel as though I can love Susannah anymore, I'd say. He'd inquire as to why. I'd have to come up with an answer for that…

I stopped, pondering what my side of the conversation might sound like…

"The reason I wanted to talk to you today, Slater, is because I recently made a discovery. What's that? No, it's not that I used to wear abnormally tight pants. I already knew that. What I wanted to tell you is that I feel as though I am incapable of loving Susannah. Wait, can't get it up? What's that mean?"

In other words, it's hopeless.

I sighed as I rose from my seat and went to obtain a fresh cup of coffee from the counter.

A few minutes later, I was back to nervously sipping coffee and awaiting Slater's appearance. He should be hear any moment. When we'd spoken on the phone previously, he'd agreed to meet me here at half past nine. It was a few minutes past 9:30 as of now.

Maybe he'd changed his mind, last minute. Our conversation hadn't gone too badly…

Slater: (in an Angelically-Sexy-Speaking voice) Slater residence.  
Me: Hello, may I speak to Paul Slater?  
Slater: (still with an ASS voice) This is he.  
Me: (trying to act surprised) Oh? This is… Jesse de Silva.  
Slater: (he is now using what, is, to me, a Perceivably-Erotic-Nevertheless-Irate Sound to speak with) De Silva? What do you want.  
Me: I need to speak to you.  
Slater: (the PENIS voice intensifies) It's past midnight; it could've waited.  
Me: It's important, Slater. It's about Susannah.  
Slater: (in a concerned voice) Suze? What's wrong with her.  
Me: Nothing's… wrong, per se.  
Slater: Per se?  
Me: I need to speak to you in person about it.  
Slater: In person?  
Me: Yes, (I glanced over my shoulder, looking at Susannah, fast asleep. I don't think she knows this, but she snores. Adorably, but very loudly as well) in person. How does nine thirty tomorrow morning sound?  
Slater: (his PENIS is inserted his ASS, type voice) Nine-thirty? After calling at twelve (he pauses, obviously checking the time) forty-eight?  
Me: I know it could be… inconvenient, but… It's for Susannah.  
(There is a pause)  
Slater: I'll be there.

I checked the time again. As of now, Slater was late by a total of twenty-eight minutes. I wished he would arrive, so I could just get everything over with. If I was going to make a fool of myself, then I'd prefer to not have to think about it any longer.

The bell that hung upon the door of the café tinkled, alerting its occupants that someone new had arrived. Wish granted, I thought, as I looked into Paul Slater's excessively handsome face.

"De Silva," Slater said, announcing his presence to me as he made his way towards my table.

"Slater," I replied, trying to keep my tone normal. Even so, it broke slightly. This moment, I thought, is going to be a turning point in my life.

And with that, we ended the pleasantries. "You said you needed to see me here, concerning Suze," Slater said.

I nodded.

"Last night," I said, and for a second, I thought I was going to tell him about my sexual encounter with Susannah, but I saved myself at the last minute. "Last night, I called you because…"

Or perhaps I hadn't saved myself. Because I'm gay and can't love Susannah? Because I think you should have Susannah, not me? Because I would prefer to have you as opposed to any woman?

"Because…?" Slater prompted, jarring me from myself.

"Because I have reached a conclusion concerning the relationship between Susannah and I. We… We can no longer be together."

Slater was staring at me, with his eyes blue, focused, and most importantly gorgeous.

"You're breaking up," Slater said.

I hesitated, "We will be."

"You're breaking up _with her_?" he asked, clarifying the situation.

"That's why I… why I asked for you to come here," I said. I was having difficulties controlling my tone again. "I need to ask a favor of you."

"Do you want me to do it for you or something?" Slater asked. "I always knew you didn't have any balls, de Silva, but you can't be serious."

"I don't want you to do it for me, Slater," I snapped. I was a bit on edge now, especially after his insinuation about my lack of manhood. As of now, both Susannah and I are completely certain that I have balls.

"I just…" I began, trailing off. Trailing off just like the small bits of hair that made their way down Slater's chest. I love it when he wears v-necks. "You…"

"Just say it, de Silva," Slater said roughly. "I don't have all day to hear you stammer on pointlessly like this."

"Do you still like Susannah?" I asked.

"Do I still like Suze?" Slater asked, at first I thought he was just clarifying my question, framing it slightly different by using Susannah's nickname, but then I realized that he was staring at me with a bizarre sort of look on his face. "What sort of question is that?"

"A simple one," I replied. "Do you?"

"I don't think the answer is any of your business," he said, "especially considering that you're breaking up with her. What, are you going to try to stop me from being around her after you've dumped her? Is that your grand scheme, de Silva? Because I'm not buying into it."

"It's nothing like that," I said quickly. "It's… just the opposite, actually."

Slater gave me a wary look. "What do you mean by 'the opposite'," He asked.

I took a deep breath. I was doing better than I thought. All I had left to do now was tell him that I wished for Susannah's happiness and that, seeing as I didn't want to be with her anymore, I thought Slater was the best choice.

The best choice for me.

But I should leave that last bit out.

"I want you to… to pursue her," I said, wondering how the words were coming from my mouth so smoothly and calmly. It was definitely some kind of miracle. "Susannah deserves someone better than… myself." This was killing me. Killing me inside. Even if I did think Slater was the sexiest thing to ever come upon two legs, it didn't change the fact that he had moral quandaries proportionate to those of my sexual ones. "Susannah deserves someone like you."

There, I'd said it.

He was caught off guard. Definitely. He looked even sexier that way, with a surprised little expression on his tanned face. But the shocked expression quickly fled his face, and, for a few moments, I wondered if I'd really seen it or if I'd imagined the reaction. He was guarded again, though I could see obvious calculation occurring behind the mask of his blue eyes.

"I can't argue with you about that, de Silva," he said, "but what led you to that conclusion?"

He was suspicious of me. That was clear. He probably thought I was some sort of imposter. And I guess I'd be suspicious as well if he ever told me that I was a better man than himself. We could both be stubborn and prideful, I knew.

But his question was putting me at a complete dilemma. What had led me to this conclusion? The one reason I could think of was the one reason I definitely couldn't say. "Coming out of the closet," was what Susannah had told me revealing homosexuality was. (I'd encountered the term at the supermarket, in bold print on the cover of some magazine with a picture of Ricky Martin next to it. I love Ricky Martin.) But with Slater sitting across from me, peering at me with renewed skepticism, I was trapped. Trapped in the closet.

"I know you're… the better choice for Susannah because," I began, my voice faltering slightly. And then I was blindsided by an idea. This question could alternatively read as, what makes me like Slater? What are his good traits? And that was a question I'd laid in bed thinking of on many nights. It was a question whose answers made me think of him secretly, longingly, depravedly.

This question was a lot easier than I'd thought.

I reminded myself to not trip over my words, that each adjective I would use to describe Slater should have time bask in its glory. And, also, that it would look suspicious if I started to foam excitedly at the mouth when describing him. There's a very high chance that such behavior is outside the parameters of normalcy.

"Susannah likes you. Even if she doesn't always want to admit to it. You're intelligent, better predisposed to care for her, cunning, well liked, influential," I was more or less in my own world now. The fantasies I'd had about him were controlling my adjectival dictionary now. "Powerful, masculine, passionate, irresistible, sexy…"

The words flew from my mouth faster than I could catch them.

_Nombre de Dios_.

What. Had. I. Done?

"Excuse me?" Slater asked, his tone roughening quickly.

Expletive after expletive danced through my head. _Joder_ was moving quite swiftly with _mierda_ across the perverted dance floor that was my mind. I think they were doing the lambada with each other.

"I… I...," those were the only words that would come from my mouth. I wondered how this would turn out. I'd admitted the two things which I absolutely did not want to admit. One, I liked men. Two, I liked him. It effectively killed two birds with one stone.

"Did you just say what I think you said?" he asked. His tone was set in a state of disbelief.

I chose not to respond. It wouldn't help if I did, I was sure. At least this way I looked slightly less idiotic.

He was still staring at me, glaring at me more like.

Of course he's not taking too well to the idea, I said to myself. Most people wouldn't be particularly fond of the idea of their arch nemesis having emotions for them. Had I really called him passionate, irresistible, and sexy? Out loud? Maybe I'd wake up in a few seconds, lying next to Susannah, happy and heterosexual.

This had to be a nightmare.

I closed my eyes tightly, hoping that this would push me out of my unconscious state faster. Or what I hoped was my unconscious state.

"What the fuck is your problem, de Silva?" he asked, his voice finally gaining the anger that I knew it would come to hold.

I could practically feel the anger radiating from him in waves. No. There was no way I could've imagined all of this well enough for it to be a nightmare.

"You're my problem, Slater," I said harshly. I was surprised I'd spoken; I couldn't remember opening my eyes or my mouth. But there I was, looking into Slater's handsome, although angered face, and telling him that he was my problem.

"I'm your problem? What, your passionate, irresistible, sexy problem?" He was sneering now. "I should've guessed it, de Silva, considering how tight your pants were."

"Leave it, Slater," I said, my voice was thin and I wasn't sure whether or not he could hear it. It was a feeble attempt to get back to the original point of the discussion. There wasn't any pretense now of course. I could come out and say: "Slater, I'm gay, I can't be with Susannah. But you can. Try and make her happy."

Saying that from the start would've been a much better alternative than what I've already said. Powerful, masculine, passionate, irresistible, sexy…

If I'd thought faster, I could've lied and said that that was how Susannah thought of him. But I don't think that fast, apparently.

"This is too good to be true," Slater said, a smirk rapidly forming across his face. "If you have any balls, de Silva, then they're probably off fantasizing about being in a foursome with the Jonas Brothers."

_Nombre de Dios__._ Now he knew my final secret, how I always wanted to be the one to make those three remove their purity rings.

Meanwhile, as I burned in embarrassment, something briefly crossed my mind. Something that seemed off kilter in the conversation… But before I could grasp what it was, it flitted off into the distant recesses of my mind.

"I bet Suze would love to know this," Slater said. It was as I thought, blackmail.

I didn't respond. I felt defeated. Probably because I was. Defeated, I mean. This was rapidly becoming the worst day of my life. The worst day of my two lives.

"How her golden boy, the one she chose instead of…" he broke off suddenly, it was easy to tell that he was going to say "instead of me" but, apparently, his ego wouldn't allow him the slip. "She'll finally figure out that she should've gone with me initially. And she'll know exactly why, as well. Apart from the obvious, of course. What was it you said again, de Silva? Strong, masculine, passionate, irresistible, sexy?"

There it was again. The glint of the something that bothered me about this conversation. I mean, there were a lot of things that bothered me about this conversation. Mostly the parts where I let it slip that I was gay and that I thought of Slater as—.

I finally received insight on the nuisance of the conversation. Slater definitely seemed to be harassing me about being gay, but he wasn't paying much attention to the fact that I'd, more or less, admitted to liking him. His previous anger had melted away, it seemed. That was definitely confusing. For someone like him, who seemed to be on a set path of homophobia, the reaction was a bit confusing. He was mad at first, but now he didn't even seem to care. That's either a very quick recovery or something… else. But what else?

"It's funny, Slater," I said, trying to regain a semblance of confidence. "That you're demeaning my sexual preferences yet not my choice sexual partner."

Did I really just say that? Honestly, it was one thing to _think_ that it was unordinary for Slater not to mention how he abhorred my liking him. It was an entirely different thing to tell him that it was unordinary for him not to mention how he abhorred my liking him.

Slater visibly flinched.

Of course. Now he's thinking about me thinking about him. He's completely disgusted. He was trying to avoid the subject… I am a complete idiot.

"That's… That's not important," Slater hissed. "You and your lack of interest in women is much more substantial, to me. I don't… I'm not like you."

"Of course you're not," I said absentmindedly. "You actually have a mind enough to like Susannah, that's why I wanted you to… Well, you know."

"I don't spend my time fantasizing about pectorals and abdominals, or stupid accents or crap like that. I'm not like you, de Silva."

"I understand. You've already said it twice now."

There was a period of silence. I kind of expected him to walk out, to leave me, the Amazing Homosexual, to my own devices.

And not _those_ devices. It was a public place, after all. Not to mention my Ceiling Crack was not present; I had no alone time material. Though oddly enough, I'd brought my Special Alone Time Liquid along with me. The small tube was currently in my wallet.

"You've got a thing for me," Slater said.

"If, by thing, you mean an unhealthy infatuation, then I daresay you are correct," I said nonchalantly. I could still come out on top here, not on top of _him_, but at least with a bit of my dignity. Why try and deny what I had near blatantly stated earlier anymore? A little bit of pride might go a long way in terms of self-esteem.

There was more silence. I sipped my coffee. He stared at a spot on the table.

He had an odd look on his face. Most likely, he was still, as Susannah would say, "freaked out" by what had just been revealed to him. His next words were slow and softer. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you, before I had you exorcised," Slater said. The word "unexpected" paled in comparison to what he had just said. …There's always room for error, right?

I stared at him, practically gaped at him. He didn't stare back; his eyes were still trained on the table. This was impossible. He couldn't feel the same way about me that I felt about him. I couldn't even dream about this moment properly in my fantasies. My mind always skipped over this part, unable to imagine it with any semblance of believability.

Slater wasn't finished. He began to speak again, eyes never connecting with mine. "That was why I had you exorcised, actually. Having a guy make me feel that way was bad enough. Having a ghost make me feel that way was… disturbing. I tried to push myself away from you and closer to Suze. I wanted you to hate me as much as possible; it would keep me from making advances on you."

"Me, with a ghost," Slater said, his tone took on a sad sort of joviality. Here, he looked at me, really looked at me. His eyes were blue and piercing as ever, but now they seemed…uncertain? It wasn't a look that seemed to fit him at all; I wasn't entirely sure that I had pinpointed the emotion correctly. "I spent my whole life believing that ghosts were beneath me. Just pawns. And then you…"

He broke off. His eyes left mine again. By now, Slater should know exactly how many specks were on the table both of our hands rested on.

My own eyes darted away as I spoke. "I never dreamt of telling you either. Until now. Because I knew that you…."

"Would automatically discount you as a freak of nature?" Slater asked, grimacing lightly. "I tried to. But the part where you wanted me… It was hard to get offended over it when the prospect made me the feel exact opposite."

The uncomfortable quiet returned between us. I was out of coffee, and I found myself drumming my fingers softly against the table. As my eyes gazed at the table, I could practically feel his eyes leave it and refocus on me. The thought that he was looking at me made me feel hot—temperature wise, I mean. Susannah informs me that "hot" could be taken to mean attractive, as well. And honestly, with his eyes on me, I was starting to feel insecure.

It probably had something to do with all that damned silence. If silence were dollars, I'd have been a rich man by then. Well, probably not in the standards of the twenty-first century, but in the nineteenth, I was certain I would have acquired a small fortune.

"Slater," I said, at the same time that he said, "de Silva."

"You first," he said quickly.

I groaned. "This is going to sound stupid. And, by stupid, I mean completely insane. But… After all of this, I need to know. What are we supposed to make of what just happened?"

I swore I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. "Are you trying to ask me 'what are we?'"

"Something like that," I replied. "I mean… I've spent a little time fanta—thinking, about what we could be like… Together." There. That was honest. The truth was in the open now, naked as the day it came. Naked. Don't think about him naked. Then you'll accidentally mention _how _you've been thinking about him. Which will either lead to him finding out about your special Ceiling Crack or the dream I'd had the night before last. The one with the leather. No one needed to know about that.

"Look, de Silva," Slater said, his voice breaking slightly. "Jesse…" It was beautiful, the way my name left his lips. "The way I feel about you," he continued. "I was always so afraid of it, but now…"

Now that we both know. Now that we feel the same way. "But now that Susannah is no longer a factor," I whispered. I was afraid of what I was thinking. Afraid of the surreal quality of the moment. Were we both reaching the same conclusion? The conclusion that I longed for us to partake in. "There is nothing standing between us, Sla— Paul. No one to keep us away from each other…" My voice trailed off.

It was a soft affair, our first kiss. Definitely shy and new. Neither of us, to my knowledge, had ever indulged ourselves in this activity with another male.

We pulled away at the same time. I expected to feel shame or embarrassment, but I felt oddly satisfied. It felt good. Better than it had been with Susannah. It felt more natural, certainly.

The ambience in the room had changed, slightly. The elderly owners, the only ones in the room, looked at us with awkward looks. They weren't disapproving, to my relief, but they did kind of hint that the establishment was created for coffee drinking and small, yet sophisticated, talk.

I gave a gentle nod in their direction, and led Paul and myself out of the café. I kept a firm grip on Paul's shoulders. Although it might not have been so much a firm grip as firm shoulders. Paul's physique, as I have noted numerous times before, is flawless.

The street outside of the café was empty, and Paul gestured towards his car. "We could go somewhere else and… talk," Paul offered. He walked around towards the passenger side.

What did he mean by talk? Did he expect words to emerge from our lips? Or did he expect our lips to be too busy with each other to think of actual discussion? Susannah usually meant the ladder, after all.

I got in the car, watching Paul as he smoothly slid the key into the ignition. It reminded me of an article in one of Susannah's favorite magazines, Cosmopolitan. Something about how you could compare how a man is in bed to how he inserts a key.

Paul would be very good, I could tell. I was more aware of my Special Alone Time Liquid, which was quickly becoming my Nakedly Intimate Passion with Paul Lust Elixir (N.I.P.P.L.E.), now more than ever.

He began to drive, and I began, to my dismay, to speak. Words could ruin this. Words could make us realize that we were venturing into uncharted territory. Words could make us turn around and forget any of this ever happened.

"Have you always been…queer?" I asked him, just as the car arrived at a stop to let another driver continue forwards. It was a tourist, I could tell, as he looked confused at the lack of stoplights.

Paul turned to look at me, his blue eyes blazing with… _Nombre de Dios_… That was definitely desire. "In my case," he said, as a wicked smirk spread across his face. It was filled with sin of the most delicious and base nature. "It's called 'bisexual.'"

I wasn't picky as to what it was called, as long as he longed for me as I longed for him. Suddenly, I didn't feel like words would ruin us anymore. There was something there, something that words alone couldn't destroy. Albeit, it was most likely because hormones were a very indestructible force. Once unleashed, as ours were, they could consume everything in sight.

And Paul was looking at me.

I could tell he knew that I wanted to be consumed. Or, I thought, perhaps do some consuming of my own…

* * *

Ìñ §êår¢h Ö£...

* * *

We sojourned to Paul's place, as opposed to my own. I shouldn't have been doing this, I knew. Especially once you considered the reason I wasn't interested in going back to my apartment.

Susannah was still there. She would've awaken by now, and she was probably wondering where I was.

The gentleman in me was demanding that I go to her at once. I should tell her the truth and then proceed by apologizing profusely. The aroused male in me, the one whose hand was creeping up Paul's thigh, didn't know what a "Susannah" was.

The victor was cemented by the time we'd reached his driveway, stumbled inside, and headed towards his bedroom.

"We're alone," Paul breathed raggedly, my lips on his neck. That was a good and a bad sign. Good because—well, that reason was fairly obvious. It was bad because he was coherent enough to tell me this. Clearly, I wasn't doing my job well enough.

I redoubled my efforts as we gravitated towards the most obvious piece of furniture in his bedroom, otherwise known as the bed. We continued our exploration, quickly losing any of its chaste qualities, if they'd ever existed in the first place.

This kiss was more demanding, more passionate and emblazoned with lust hotter than fire. Our bodies connected with the bed, and I grabbed the small tube of N.I.P.P.L.E. and prepared for what the day would bring.

* * *

**(Author's Notes)**

I figure that the best way to say 'sorry' is with an update. Right? …Right?

Oh, additionally, on the phone, when there were ASS and PENIS voices, I considered making "concerned voice" Concerned, Undeniably Nervous Tone, but… I didn't. I mean, as you can see, Jesse doesn't even swing that way, so…


	3. It's NOT All a Dream

**In Search Of…**

There's such a thing as reaction, and then there's such a thing as response. And Suze's response is much more frightful than her reaction.

Author's Notes: I wrote a lot of this chapter, including the entire flashback, while listening to 'N SYNC. And I don't know how I should feel about that fact yet. I mean, my muse is tied to a boy band…? But, whatever got me to write this chapter, it's been seven days short of six months since it was last updated and... Eighteen days short of two years since the first chapter was published.

Disclaimer – The Mediator is property of Meg Cabot. I'm not Meg Cabot. And I'm not making any money off this. Sworn!

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_Chapter Three ~ It's NOT All a Dream_

The splutters and gasps from the Spanish man fueled my anger, my drive, my diligence to annihilate. Asphyxiation… This was the same way his original death has been delivered. And the hatred, the violence, the lack of mercy… These were emotions that I was certain his lover had.

Where had my life gone so wrong? So wrong as to do this?

Dumb question. I could pinpoint the exact moment when my world crash landed off of its axis…

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_I'd walk until I got tired of walking. Until my head was clear. Then I'd find a phone and get a ride home. And after that, I would reply affirmatively to a proposal from my boyfriend. Yes. That was the plan._

The walk did me pretty well. I still felt pretty crappy about the whole not-remembering-last-night thing, but other than that, all was well in Suze land. I'd even gotten a cup of coffee on my way. (Not from the Coffee Clutch, mind you. It was from this place that Jesse likes, where all these old people are always hanging out. It's probably the exact antonym of the word trendy.) I began to plan as I sipped on my coffee. It was plain and strong, with just cream and sugar. The elderly did not like selling flavored coffee, apparently.

There were several things I had to solve. One, how to never let Jesse figure out that I couldn't remember last night. Two, how to have a repeat of last night while paying extra special attention and possibly taking notes. Maybe I should break out a video camera just to make sure I have memory of the event… Three, how to looked surprise during the possible marriage proposal. Four, how not to crush my own heart if I'm wrong about the proposal thing. It's not the first time I've been wrong about what Jesse was planning on doing, of course.

I was pretty sure the fourth plan was done for already. The coffee, well caffeinated, just made me feel more anxious and excited. Thankfully, it also gave me the drive to keep walking. Somehow continued motion made me feel better about everything. It definitely gave me more time to cross a few more items of the list.

The first issue could probably be solved by lying. And guessing. Last year, when Gina had lost her... um… _hymen_, she'd told me pretty much everything that had happened. I'd just provide a recap of that phone conversation. Of course, I'd probably leave out that awkward part where Father Dom had called and I'd answered it, accidentally pressing the wrong button and putting him into me and Gina's conversation instead of a separate one. How had it all gone?

Gina:And I was wearing one of those front-closing bras, you know. Talk about lucky.  
Me: Definitely. Oh, wait, can you hold on a second? Other line.  
Gina: Yeah, yeah, sure.  
[ - Pressing Buttons on Phone - ]  
Father Dom: Hello, this is Father Dominic of—.  
Me: It's me, Father Dom. But can I call you back? I'm taking a really important phone call right now.  
Father Dom: Susannah—.  
[ - Me Thinking I've Cut Him Off - ]  
Me: So what happened after he took off your bra, Gina?  
Father Dom: Excuse me?  
[ - Insert Long, Awkward Lecture Here - ]

Dammit. Gina had _planned _on telling me everything that happened, but we'd never actually gotten past bra removal. Albeit, this was something Jesse had never done to me but still. I'd need something a little more substantial than "I remember that part when you took off my bra." But then again, I wasn't wearing a front-closing bra today, so I couldn't even tell him that factoid in detail.

So time to lie. Between issues of Cosmo, romance novels, and Cinnemax after dark I should be able to come up with something, right?

OK. First was foreplay. So last night probably started with a heavy makeout session. I could do that. We'd done that before. Except, this time, clothes had probably come off. And somehow they'd come off with enough enthusiasm to land all over his room. What was I supposed to say about that? "Jesse, I remember how the force of our passion stripped my clothing off into the four corners of the desire saturated location known as your room."

Whoa. Way too much bad romance novel. I could probably skip the part about how our clothes had come off and focus more on what had happened after they'd been removed. That would be harder to do of course…

Did foreplay end once the clothes were off? No, there would probably be more kissing or something. Touching? Humping? Dammit. My imagination could only take me so far. I stopped walking and squeezed my eyes tightly shut. I tried as hard as I could to force myself into remembering what had happened last night.

It had been a Friday. I'd gone over to Jesse's after dinner for a movie night. Watching a movie had turned into making out. And then… Blank.

Dammit.

How could I forget one of the most major events of my entire life? You didn't get a second shot at losing your virginity, after all.

I gave up, opened my eyes, and kept walking. I ditched the first item. Besides, what were the chances that Jesse would ask for a complete rundown of what had happened last night? He was there; he should know, too.

I thought about the second item on my list. Figure out how to have a repeat. That wasn't really something I had to think about. If it happened once, it'd probably happen again. I could work on my memorization strategies later.

I skipped on to the next item. Surprised look. This was important. I continued walking, testing out different expressions on various objects around the sidewalk. A fire hydrant was the recipient of my first surprised expression, which, after a look into a shop window, didn't look surprised enough. The stop sign on a street corner got surprised expression number two. It didn't look happy enough. I looked way too practiced on my eighth expression, given to a mailbox. I had to have gone through at least thirty expressions before I got an odd look from someone riding in the passenger's seat of a Mercedes.

Realizing that I looked like a complete idiot, and in broad daylight nonetheless, I decided that item three would simply have to wait until I was behind closed doors. If someone was going to think I was insane, it would be because they figured out that I could see ghosts, not because I was trying to practice my surprised expressions.

The final item of my list, not put all my hopes into thinking Jesse was going to propose to me, was already shot. I briefly considered that, if I was wrong about this whole Jesse's-going-to-pull-an-old-fashioned-nineteenth-century-guy-move-and-propose-to-me-for-taking-my-virginity thing, than I wouldn't have to worry about my lack of a proper surprised expression. I guess that was a silver lining.

I hadn't really managed to do anything on my task list, but I didn't let this deter me too much. I was starting to make plans for my return to the first item. On my first time around, I might not have let my imagination wander far enough. With a little more time, I could probably create a satisfactory mental recreation. This wasn't exactly the first time I'd imagined me and Jesse doing the horizontal, after all. Apparently, walking just wasn't as conducive to dirty fantasies as lying in your bed with an battery-operated toothbrush.

I changed tracks and tried to summon up memories of my imagined first times. There had been a particularly satisfactory one a few weeks ago, I remembered…

_We were kissing. And my skin felt like it was on fire. The closer I got to Jesse, the hotter it was. But the better I felt, like if I moved away, I'd probably die. Jesse seemed to understand and reciprocate my feelings. Because he was pulling at our clothing, easing my shirt our shirts over our heads and then rejoining our lips because those thirty seconds apart had almost killed us._

I felt my face flush as my involvement in the memory increased. Damn. Where was that toothbrush when I needed it? I'd carried my memories of that fantasy way farther than my memories of last night, that was for sure. That fantasy was probably a bit too romance novel to be real, I'd heard that losing your virginity wasn't all hearts and roses, for one thing. It was supposed to feel uncomfortable the first time. That fantasy hadn't involved a shred of discomfort as far as I could recall… Maybe if I added in a touch of pain I could pretend that it was the real thing? That would probably work well enough. Everyone must romanticize their first time, right?

So it was settled then. I had "remembered" how I'd lost my virginity and I was ready to face my boyfriend/virginity-taker/future fiancé. I stopped walking and glanced around, trying to figure out where I'd wound up.

It took me about ten seconds to come to the realization that I was about two yards away from Paul Slater's house. What the hell? Once I paused, I realized that my feet weren't in the mood for making the long walk back to Jesse's house. Secondly, I couldn't figure out why my subconscious was, for some reason, obsessed with the idea of me being in such close proximity with the son of Satan. Lastly, I was worried about the fact that I was somewhat considering asking Paul to give me a ride back to my house. It would be too long of a walk to go there myself, and at the very least I was going to have to ask someone to use a phone for me to call a ride. Something told me that I might not run into a Neil Jankow-type and get a ride home. My only good news, concerning this situation, was that I was wearing flats and not painful Jimmy Choo heels.

I winced and walked closer to Paul's house. His shiny BMW was parked in the driveway, so he was home. I swallowed as I made my way up the front walk. This was definitely going to give him the wrong impression of me. Coming over to his house on the weekend in order to ask him a favor? What if he wanted me to… do him a favor in return? He was warm for my form, apparently, and the last thing I wanted was for him to feel like I owed him anything.

I tried to ignore this line of thinking as I rang the doorbell. I waited about a minute and then pressed my finger to the doorbell again. Again, there was no answer. Maybe he was in the shower or something…?

But I heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door and realized he'd probably just been in the middle of something. The door opened, revealing a disheveled Paul. He was shirtless, for one thing. And he looked a little sweaty. Had he been working out? But then again, his jeans were on…backwards? He must've been busy with some girl. This moment had successfully become awkward.

"Suze," he said somewhat breathlessly. Was this what the voice of someone who had been having sex supposed to sound like? Should I be taking notes right now? "Why are you here?"

"Nice to see you, too, Paul," I said, trying not to look at his chest, which was definitely in the masculine and hot category. "Could I use a phone? I was out taking a walk and I… Um…"

I stopped trying to come up with an ending for my sentence when I heard another voice.

"Paul? What's going on?"

That wasn't. Was that? I knew that voice, but it couldn't be. Right? Because that made about as much sense as… Damn. Nothing made as little sense as this moment right now. There was no way I could've just heard Jesse's voice while Paul was clearly in a post-sex daze.

But then I didn't need to confirm that it was his voice anymore, because I saw his body. Jesse's body, I mean. He was equally shirtless and wasn't wearing pants at all, backwards or otherwise. Instead, he was wearing a pair of boxers.

It took a few seconds for our eyes to lock. Firstly, I was distracted by the overt display of Jesse's body. He was just as perfectly sculpted as I'd always suspected. My eyes weren't sure if I should start at his chest, which I'd seen, at least partially, before, or start in on his thighs. I really wished he would turn around so I could get a better look at his—.

"Susannah," he breathed, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. I usually had trouble reading Jesse, but the blind could probably tell that he was surprised—no, shocked. The expression I'd probably been going for earlier that day was on his face now, and magnified on his face by a thousand percent. Though, of course, I'd been trying for surprised _without_ the dash of horror that Jesse had.

"Jesse?" I asked. I was trying to ask about a thousand things with just one word. Jesse, why are you at Paul's house in just a pair of boxers? Jesse, would your current attire and Paul's backward pants happen to be related to each other? Jesse, you didn't just have sex with Paul did you? Jesse, how did you achieve such a perfect balance of chest hair? Jesse, how is it that I never knew how to appreciate a happy trail until I saw yours? Jesse, would you forgive me if I told you that I couldn't remember our sexual encounter last night?

We stared at each other for who knows how long. It was long enough, in any case, for Paul to clear his throat and tell me to come inside so I could use his phone.

Paul had pushed a cordless phone into my hand before I found my voice again. "What the hell?" I asked. And I asked it again, just in case Jesse and Paul hadn't heard me.

And then another surprising thing happened. Jesse and Paul exchanged a glance. It was like a nervous gesture that went on between lovers. Which was funny, because I couldn't read Jesse _or _Paul, so I couldn't see the point in them exchanging gestures between each other. Could one unreadable person read another unreadable person? And since when did the two of them feel close enough to each other to start exchanging glances in the first place?

"Susannah," Jesse said, his voice seemed very uncertain. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you…"

And suddenly, I was pretty damn sure it wasn't going to be a marriage proposal.

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He'd told me alright.

And that was why I was here. That was why I was demented.

My hands clenched even more tightly around his throat. I'd ignored every cry and plea the man gave and every bit of mercy and morality that I had. He had to die. He had to! His dark hair, his olive skin…

"Why did you leave me, Jesse?" I asked, shouting in his face in a fit of hysteria. "Why?"

I received no answer. My job was finished, and the man slumped beneath my hands. He was dead. Finished. Out of my life.

I backed away, feeling reality hit me. This man wasn't Jesse. Of course, he wasn't. He was of Spanish decent, I knew that much. Some of his begging had been in Spanish. And this man's body had been decent enough. Not anywhere near as good as Jesse's had been, but…

Jesse and the man I had just killed looked vaguely similar.

This man was the sixth one I'd killed for that crime. The crime of being in any way like Jesse.

I'd been unable to control my need to do something about him. But he hadn't been anywhere around me, and, in any case, I was pretty sure I couldn't kill Jesse. I was angry with him. I was devastated that our love, which I'd thought was brilliant, was never going to work out. That'd he'd known this and still let me keep falling for him. That, fuck it all, he'd wound up with the one other guy who seemed to like me. Even if the one other guy was evil. And the fact that Jesse was banging Satan's offspring just made me angrier. Seriously. He was supposed to be Mr. Morals and he was off having a steamy love affair with _Paul_. The fact that they were both men didn't matter to me so much as he was with Paul. PAUL!

And so that was when it began. I'd graduated high school with my mental stability only half intact, and, to be honest, I spent the remainder of my senior year taking out every bit of frustration I had on ghosts. I took even the slightest hesitance in moving on to be reason for a heavy duty ass kicking. And what I'd previously regretted, you know, the fact that ghosts just can't die again and keep getting up for more, became the sweetest fact of all. I had real live punching bags available for me around the clock. Father Dom detected that I'd grown more violent since Jesse and I broke up, but he had no idea of the full extent of damage.

I left California for college and ended up at a SUNY school along with Gina. That was when everything spiraled out of control. It was after one of our first college parties, where I'd gotten pretty smashed, that I met him.

I don't even know his name. Though, judging by the Lady Gaga song, it's either Alejandro, Fernando, or Roberto. He was a certified Latino hottie, in any case, and he had a scar running through one of his eyebrows. That was where the similarities ended. He wasn't from Spain (Guatemala), he didn't know a thing about manners (douchebag), and his pants weren't made of leather (jeans). But, oh yeah, he _was_ a ghost.

It was that night that I discovered two things. One, yes, ghosts can sustain erections, although, no, there is no ejaculation. And two, murder (or in Random Spanish Guy's case, an undeserved exorcism) doesn't feel all that bad when you find a good enough reason. Or you just lose your mind enough. It's really a mixture of the two. I'd had my reason for nearly two years now, and my insanity had been successfully brewing since the day Jesse confessed to me that he was in love with Paul.

I didn't think I'd ever be able to scrub that memory out of my mind. I'd been so deluded as to think that Jesse was going to propose to me that day, after a night of sex that I couldn't remember but would certainly bring out every Puritanical virtue he possessed in a need to correct his actions.

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I busily tried to process everything I'd been told. Jesse was gay. As in, not liking girls but appreciating penises. And, apparently, sleeping with me was an experiment. At least the guilt of not being able to remember his performance had faded away. And, maybe it was a little flattering to know that he thought I was such a perfect woman that, if he wasn't attracted to me, he had to be gay. But it wasn't flattering enough to erase all of my shock. And it definitely didn't numb the fact that, apparently, he had just gotten through _doing it_ with Paul.

The fact that, maybe, when Paul called the other night, he might have _actually_ been looking for phone sex. I had to swallow back bile at the thought.

"You're in love with Paul?" I asked. I had to check. Maybe all of this was a misunderstanding. Maybe it was International Answer the Door Almost Naked with Your Worst Enemy After Making It Look Like You Had Sex Day. But I was pretty sure that was hoping for too much. "As in, him?" I asked, motioning towards Paul, who was glancing down at his pants, realization dawning on him that he had a zipper sticking against the wrong side of his nether regions.

"Yes, Susannah, Paul," Jesse replied. His voice seemed…protective? Like, he was upset that I was offended by the thought of him being with Paul.

I didn't know what to say next. Or who to say it to. But I turned towards Paul. "And you… You're… With him?"

"You know, you usually start babbling when you're out of words to say, Suze. This stumbling thing is new for you. But, yeah, I'm with de Silva," he said. And… Was that one of those covert, small smiles at the end of that sentence? On the "I'm with de Silva" part?

I wanted to be sick. I wanted my life to be a bad novel with a deus ex machina and find out this was all a dream. I wanted to get out of the Twilight Zone. And… I think I wanted to be Paul. Aside from having my boyfriend, he likely also remembered the amazing sex he'd apparently just had with him.

Another fact chose that moment to hit me. Paul had stolen my boyfriend. Of all the things I was scared of him doing to Jesse, exorcising him having previously occupied the top spot, sleeping with him was at the very bottom of the list. It wasn't…right, to say the least.

I started laughing, and, judging by the expressions on Paul and Jesse's faces, they were probably certain that I'd just lost it. I remembered the dream I'd created as a cover story to Jesse, to mask the fact that I'd been thinking about him _in that special way_.

_Since my birth, I had been destined to keep Paul out of Jesse's pants. I wouldn't allow myself to fail my mission._

I'd most definitely failed, hadn't I?

And I'd just kept laughing, because everything was going wrong. And if I didn't laugh, I was pretty certain I'd start crying. I remembered having been worried about silly things, like the number of pretty girls that regularly hit on Jesse or how to stop the disbelieving looks some girls gave to me at the sight of seeing me with Jesse. I should've been worried about more relevant things, like Jesse and other guys. Which makes me way more worried about what could've been going on between Jesse and Doc.

_I think Doc is trying to initiate a love affair with Jesse. Jesse likes to talk about smart people stuff… Doc likes to talk about smart people stuff… Jesse doesn't even seem to mind talking to Doc, not that talking to him is a chore or anything, but Jesse really gets engrossed in the conversation. There are times when I think the whole love affair thing is a two-way street. Then I remember that Doc is like, fifteen, and I stop worrying about it. Jesse is not a pedophile. Even though I was pretty much Doc's age when me and Jesse met…_

_No, Suze. Do not go there. Your boyfriend, your perfectly straight, twenty-one year old boyfriend, is not engaging in any sort of sexual activity with your fifteen year old step brother. Deep breath, Suze. Deep breath…_

I'd have to ask Doc later if he and Jesse had ever been… together. It suddenly felt like a possibility. My old to-do list was suddenly replaced with another one. I'd need something to do if I wanted to keep this news from driving me crazy.

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Of course, nothing I did could keep a bout of craziness from coming on. The one I'd been desperately in love with for years, the one that the universe seemingly wanted to be, as concluded from how he managed to surpass time and death to come back to me, wasn't going to be with me after all. He was going to be with his worst enemy instead. The new to-do list, headed by discovering whether or not Doc had ever slept with Jesse ("Not slept with, Suze," he'd said, blushing madly. "It's called intercrural sex, and the Ancient Greeks did all the time.") was followed with various other distractions (find a new, rebound boyfriend, watch Lifetime and hate men, host an anti-Valentine's day party) which eventually became things like "make a kill tonight."

I came crashing back to my present reality as soon as I heard the megaphone.

"Susannah Simon. You are surrounded. Put your hands in the air."

From the first moment I'd started this, started taking my anger out on the living instead of the dead, I'd known this was going to happen. Its inevitability was one of the things I'd looked forward to. My arrest was a given as much as my eventual death. It was something in my life that I could see coming, something that I wouldn't need a surprised expression for…

I came quietly, dropping my victim to the ground unceremoniously. I heard the rights I'd been able to familiarize myself with from TV being recited as cold, metal handcuffs were attached to my wrists. Somehow, even as I was being pushed into the backseat of a police cruiser, I didn't regret anything. Not even as I realized that I'd just had my last breath of air as a free woman. Somehow, the fact that it was all _his_ fault, redirected my pain into other channels of bitter hope.

Somewhere out there, alongside with Paul, who was no longer the son of Satan and simply Satan himself, Jesse had to be suffering greatly.

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**(Author's Notes)**

Don't you just love the weird plots of crack fiction? Anyways, two chapters left. The next chapter is from Jesse's POV. And then I'll probably round things out with another Suze POV, though I might split it between Jesse and Suze. Not sure yet.

Don't forget to review!


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